For Keep's Sake. . ., posted by Kellie

“While cleaning out my closet I found. . .”

. . . shoeboxes full of notes.

I’m a nostalgic kind of girl. I like to save things. Then I like to forget that I’ve saved them and stumble upon them many years later (yes, I realize this may be a pre-cursor to hoarding behavior).

Apparently, I thought it would be important to save the notes (ALL of them) that friends had passed to me throughout junior high and high school. Naturally, upon opening a few (they were all, of course, folded like paper fortune tellers), I had absolutely no idea what the notes had been talking about. I could, however, tell that the topics of our writing were very important at the time—in the most dramatic adolescent sense of the word.

Some of them were written in code. We wrote backwards, we wrote diagonally, we assigned each letter to a number and wrote in collections of numbers instead of words. We wrote in pig latin. We used fake names for the boys we had crushes on. We also used fake names for people we didn’t like.

We used several nicknames for ourselves; but, I can no longer remember where they came from or why.
Now, all those hours of writing, scheming, and plotting are headed for the paper recycling.

. . .and my collection of POGS.

15 years later. . . I couldn’t remember the point of these circular pieces of cardboard with goofy designs on the front. So, me being me, I googled it.

I had forgotten all about slammers (the thicker, non-cardboard game pieces).
And the large circular plastic discs that served as game boards.
And even that pogs could be “lost” and “won.”

They were all the rage when I was in grade school. Much like slap bracelets. Or Trolls. Or Beanie Babies. Or Magic cards. Ah, all the things we had to have when we were kids because everyone else in our class had them (insert clichéd jumping off a bridge question here).

I can imagine begging my mom to take my brother and I to the mall after school on almost a weekly basis so we could add to our Pog collections. And I do vaguely remember rummaging through the kiosk bins to find the perfect additions to my collection.

But, I don’t remember actually ever playing the game.
And I can’t believe that I would have ever played “for keeps.”

I heart Holden Caufield, posted by Kellie

In my opinion, the gift that keeps on giving is. . .

Reading.

Despite the inherent clichés, for me there’s nothing like picking up a book and getting lost in it. There’s also nothing like reading a page and finding a line that seems like it was written strictly for you to read. It tells you something new about yourself, or makes you realize something you had forgotten for a really long time. It’s intoxicating, to an extent. It pulls you through the pages looking for other nuggets of hope or realization or whatever it is that you’re looking for at that particular moment in life. It could be anything. And it could be something that no one else will notice. And it could be something different for every person that reads the same book. It could also be something different for the same reader coming to the book at a different time in her life. This addiction keeps me wandering the shelves of bookstores for hours, looking for the newest addition to my collection of sentences and paragraphs I can’t get enough of.

Cheesy as it may sound, I make a point of reading The Catcher in the Rye at least once a year. And I generally don’t re-read things. Ever. (There’s too much new material out there for me to spend all my reading time on old favorites). Every time I revisit it, it tells me something new. It makes me feel, all at once, like I am back in AP English my Senior Year of high school, finally figuring out for the first time that I have absolutely no business applying to college as a Biology major because I don’t really love Biology (as much as I like the idea of being a physician). I love books. And that it’s okay for me to have absolutely no idea how I’m going to apply this love of reading to real life, because it’s so rare for anyone to know this about themselves at the age of 17. And, in another moment, it makes me feel an overwhelming sense of nostalgia for the girl I used to be who was incredibly idealistic and naïve and thought just about anything was possible.

Who Tard? Mustard!, posted by Josh

In my opinion, the gift that keeps on giving is...

Mustard.

Has a more perfect condiment ever been made? Many would say yes. They would be wrong.

First and foremost, it just tastes great. You can get it thick or thin, sweet or tart, mild or spicy, yellow or brown. The variety of options are astounding. I even once knew a girl who made strawberry mustard (and actually owned strawberrymustard.com - sadly, the site is now long gone).

Then comes the health benefits. Plain ol' mustard has no calories. Did you know that? You do now! On top of that studies show that mustard actually increases your metabolism. I'd like to see mayonnaise do that. That not enough for you? It also improves digestion, is a good source of omega-3 fatty acids, calcium, dietary fiber, iron, manganese, magnesium, niacin, phosphorus, protein, selenium and zinc. Humbled yet? Well you should be.

And unlike it's more popular brother ketchup, mustard doesn't suffer from any identity issues (ketchup, catsup, make up your mind, red!).

Think of all the wonderful things you can eat with mustard: burgers, hot dogs, fries, chicken fingers, etc.

The gift that keeps on giving or the greatest gift of all? I rest my case.

CTA Allergens, posted by Kellie

I’m sitting on the bus, minding my own business, when. . .

The bus stops and admits a few new rain-sodden passengers at Delaware. One of the newcomers sits down perpendicularly from me. He’s next to me, but not quite, and in front of me, but not quite that either. We’re at the corner where the horizontal and vertical seat rows form an L.

I want to prop my head against the window, but I remember a friend telling me that the bus is full of more germs than a toilet bowl and remain upright. I sneeze, twice. I am, perhaps, becoming part of the reason that the bus is full of more germs than a toilet bowl.

The newcomer turns to me and asks, “Are you sick?”
“No,” I respond. “Allergies.”
“You’re allergic to the rain?” he asks.
“No. I’m not allergic to rain.” I say, annoyed, but at the same time trying not to laugh. Of course I’m not allergic to the rain. Is anyone allergic to the rain?

I hate getting to know people, much less striking up conversations with complete strangers on the CTA. It’s so hard to learn the ins and outs of a particular person’s idiosyncratic mind. And, unfortunately, most of the time you’re too invested in the person by the time you discover you’re really not that interested. I continue, “It’s just that time of year.” I hope he will leave me to my iPod and sit quietly like the rest of the bus riders.

But he doesn’t afford me this luxury, and doesn’t seem to notice that my one-word to blunt responses signal that I don’t want to talk.
“Man,” he says, seemingly to no one, but he’s looking directly at me, “I’ve been looking for a job all day.”
“Oh,” I say, nonchalantly, shoving my iPod headphone deeper into my ear, as though he hasn’t already noticed I’m “busy.”
“What do you do?”

I hesitate, as I almost always do, when I’m about to tell someone that I work in retail. Not that there’s really anything wrong with retail, but there are certain assumptions people bring to that job description: not intelligent, no college education, etc. But I have both. So at least I have the personal assurance that I could be doing something else if I felt like it, but I don’t.

“I work in a clothing store,” I say. This guy has no place to judge me, anyway. He’s been looking for a job all day, in the miserable rain that can only signal fall is coming – quickly. At least I spend my 8-5 doing something and getting paid.
“Cool,” he says. “Are they hiring there now?”
“I think so,” I say, hoping he’s not going to show up at my counter tomorrow and ask for an application.
“I’ve been looking for serving jobs.” I want to shake him at this point and scream that I don’t care. I don’t respond. I have nothing to say about serving jobs, I’ve never had one.
He persists, “So, you’re in school, then?”

I groan, inaudibly. I just want to listen to my bad music and get home, into warm clothes and dry socks. The assumption people make about retail kids is that they’re still in school, if they’re courteous enough to give them that much credit. At this point, I want to make him feel like an idiot. “I just finished my master’s in June.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yup.” I am trying to be as short as possible without being completely rude. Customers are completely rude to me for absolutely no reason, I vow never to sink that low. I start reading one of the overhead bus advertisements about becoming an egg donor. The few. The proud. The egg donors. It was enough to make me feel like I’d be signing up for the army if I called their toll-free number or visited their website, despite the fact that I could win a couple’s infinite gratitude. Too much responsibility, I think.

“So, what did you study?” I sigh. I thought we were done with this.
“Writing.”
“What kind of writing?”
“Creative.”
“Cool.”
I begin to hate the word cool, in reference to anything that isn’t weather.
“Do you want to teach?”
“No.”
“Oh.”

I’d like to think he was just being friendly, that he had a long day and needed someone to talk to, but I wasn’t going to be that person. Not tonight, or ever. The bus can’t seem to drive quite fast enough to get me home. It crawls past Armitage and Webster and slinks to a stop at Belden, even though the light is green, no one has requested a stop, and no new passengers are waiting. I usually get off at Roslyn. But I can’t wait today. I stand up and request a stop at Fullerton, even though it’s raining, and even though my feet hurt. I can’t answer one more unsolicited question about the job he doesn’t have and the life I’m nonchalantly planning for myself. It makes me think too hard about what I really ought to be doing.

Finding Jesus?, posted by Josh

Prompt: I'm sitting on the bus, minding my own business, when...

I notice the man sitting next to me with his long dark hair and a similar beard, wearing old tan robes.

“Um, excuse me,” I say to him, a bit embarrassed. “I’m sure you get this a lot but, well, you’re not Jesus, are you?”

The man looks at me with contempt and answers with a quick, “No.”

“Okay,” I say, going back to my magazine. But I can’t help myself. “I mean, because you just really look like him.”

“Yeah, yeah, our lord and savior. I get that a lot. I’m not him.”

“It’s just that it’s really an uncanny resemblance.”

“My name is Alex, okay? Not Jesus. Can’t a guy like to keep his hair and beard long and wear old robes? Is that a crime?”

I hold up my hands, palms out. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.” I go back to my magazine.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Alex has a water bottle between his legs, filled with a dark red liquid.

“I really don’t mean to bother you again,” I say, and I hear Alex let out a sigh. “Is that, um, is that wine in your water bottle?”

“It’s that fruit flavored water, okay?”

“I mean, ‘cause it’s in a Fiji bottle.”

“Yeah, I buy those little packets of Crystal Light that you pour in the bottle and then you shake it up. That’s how I happen to like my water. Is that okay with you?”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean anything by it.”

Alex lets out another sigh and looks up to read the ads above us, avoiding my gaze. I look around the bus, glancing back at Alex and whispering to him, “’Cause you know, if you are him, you can tell me. It’s totally cool. I mean, I’m not one of those people who’s gonna run out and sell the news to the Enquirer or something. I’m like a vault. I can keep a secret.”

Alex gives me a dirty look and then gets up and moves to a different part of the bus.

I nod to myself, silently recovering from my snub, and go back to reading my magazine.

So much for finding Jesus.

All Fake, posted by Byron J

Prompt: So the other night I got locked in the closet with Bill Cosby.

It’s not a walk-in closet; so don’t get all “well how bad can it really be?” It’s pretty much the size of a large refrigerator box. Picturing it? Good. Because, contrary to popular belief, Bill Cosby is not very funny. Especially when he is freaking his shit out in a dark closet that smells like a locker room from the previously stored sweaty shoes and an old resale shop—you know, musty. And it smells like Stetson. Bill Cosby is totally wearing Stetson.

“Bill. Dude. I’m begging you to stop trying to kick down the door. Someone will come to look at the house and find us. Tell some jokes… that will make you feel better.”

“Now-a-Byronnnnn,” Bill says, “Byronnnn, I’m… I’m a gonna tella somethinnnng that a… that a you might not like.”

Yes, He does talk like those Pudding Pop commercials—which I had always adored as a kid. I mean Bill is so good with his voice and the whole “Pudding Pops in the sleeping bag!” COME ON! Classic! From where I’m sitting, the very dark corner, I can only faintly see the shape of Bill lifting his leg. His shadow looking like an old Ninja karate chopping at the large wood door.

“What is it Bill?” I ask chewing on my nails. It’s what I do when I’m nervous… and apparently locked in a closet with a former television star. Becoming his realtor probably wasn’t the best idea… but after a few martinis with him at his Cosby show reunion I was a guest at and, you know, being a good liar… things happen. Things like pretending you are a realtor so you can tell this funny story to your children one day (who will most likely not know or care who Bill Cosby is) and then showing Bill the closet that you didn’t really know would accidentally lock from the inside.

“I, ummmm, well, ummmm, I’m actually not able to tell jokesBill says will his voice cracking. He has stopped kicking the door. “I’m uhhhh, I’m actually not able to tell jokes.”

“Bill. What are you saying?”

“I, uh, don’t write ‘em.”

“What?” I mean… I’m shocked. I could hear Bill trying to sit down in the dark. I imagined his old man body folding in—knees to his chest as he starts to talk.

“You know Ruddddddd-yyyyyyyy, that-a girl from the Cos-by show?”

“Yup.”

“She wrote everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yesss sirrrrr.”

I can hear Bill softly breathing. I sigh. I mean what do you say to someone who you never thought was that funny(besides the Pudding Pops! Come on! Classic!) in the first place that it’s OK not to be funny when you’ve been making money off a former child star that’s probably fat and eats boxes of Twinkies or shoots up to get through the pain of failure.

You say this: “Well, Bill, suck it up. We’ve got time… tell me a joke.”

Bill gasps. Literally inhales air like it’s going out of style.

“Byronnnnnn, I can’t do that. I just…”

“Do it… do it, Bill. Do it for little Rudy.” I say this as if I really care if this guy is funny. I don’t really. I mean, I used to watch the show… and it was funny… and now that I am thinking about it… Rudy with her bad girl rolling eye attitude was pretty damn funny. Speaking of eyes, mine are adjusting more to the dark and I can see the outline of Bill’s mouth when he starts to stammer out:

“So… a guy walks in to a bar…”

“No Bill… those are never funny.”

“Oh… ahhh… Knock KNOCK…” Bill says with a second attempt.

“No.”

“So a Catholic Priest…”

“NO!” My foot is starting to fall asleep and so is my patience. Bill Cosby… folks, Bill Cosby is NOT funny!

“Why did the chicken…”

“BILL!”

“Byronnnnnnnnnn, I can’t do this.”

Just like J-E-L-L-O, Bill Cosby is all fake.

Clooosssett, posted by Josh

Prompt: So the other night I got locked in the closet with Bill Cosby.

"Cos!" I said, confused. "What are you doing in here?"

"Well ya seeee," he said, "when yuur hangin' out in the clooosssettt-"

"Cut the act, Cos," I said. He slowly turned to look at me, his face stoic. "Do you really want to know why I'm here?" he asked.

His glare and voice intimidated me, and I backed up a step, my shoulders pushing against a pile of board games on a high shelf behind me. I nodded slowly.

"I came here for this," he said, reaching past my shoulder and grabbing a deck of Uno. "Uno?" I asked. Cos nodded. "And now that I have this," he said, turning towards the door. But I stopped him and said, "We're locked in here, remember?"

The Cos turned to face me again and help up his index finger high in the air. "I have a plan," he said. A plan? "I never go anywhere without this," he said, pulling a lock picking kit out of his back pocket. "Why do you carry that around with you?" I asked, confused. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "did you not want to get out of this locked closet?" I help up my hands, palms out. "Fine, fine. Do what you gotta do."

The Cos leaned down, his fingers using the tools to poke, twist and adjust. After a few minutes he stood up, the door still locked. "This is a tough one," he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his forehead.

"How much do you keep in those pockets?" I asked. The Cos pulled out a plastic container. "Jell-O?"

I rolled my eyes. "Just take care care of the lock," I told him. The Cos put the Jell-O and handkerchief back into his pocket and went back to work on the lock. Three minutes later I heard a click and the knob turned.

"Well thanks, I guess," I told him. "You bet," he said, walking off. "Hey," I called after him, "I'm getting that deck of Uno back, right?" But Cos was already out the front door. "Right?!?" I yelled after him.

I thought to myself, that is the last time I let someone in who says their car broke down across the street and they need to use my phone.

My video companion to this prompt: